


Trust

by Bullfinch



Series: After Kirkwall [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fight Scenes, M/M, Paranoia, Red Lyrium
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4150149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris’s markings are poisoned after contact with red lyrium. Hawke seeks the Inquisition’s help to find a way to cure him before the madness takes over and he becomes too dangerous to contain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hawke drops down without warning, landing with a  _whump_  two feet to Fenris’s left. Fenris jumps half out of his skin, scrambling across the rock. “What are you—“

“I counted five standing guard outside and at least another half-dozen in the mine. Likely more.” Hawke strokes his beard in thought. “No telling what the mine itself looks like. We could be walking straight into a death trap.”

“Must you continue to startle me out of my wits like that?” Fenris mutters, wiping his grass-stained palms on his thighs.

“Yes.” Hawke grins and leans in to kiss him on the cheek. “Your surprised face is incredibly endearing.”

Fenris accepts the kiss, begrudging. “A death trap, you say.”

“Indeed.”

“I hope you have a plan.”

“Come now, you know me.” Hawke stands and stretches. “I always have a plan.”

Fenris stands as well, taking up his greatsword. “Let me rephrase. I hope you have a  _working_  plan.”

Hawke puts on a sulking pretense. “My plans work  _ninety_  percent of the time.”

Fenris doesn’t dignify that with an answer, walking past Hawke and down the lush slope. He goes with care, the mossy rock slippery beneath him.

“All right, eighty percent.” Hawke descends behind him. “Probably. At  _least_  seventy percent of the time.”

“It seems you are so skilled in deception you deceive even yourself.” Fenris grasps a sapling and lowers himself down a particularly steep segment. “I shall endeavor to keep a tally, so you may correct this illusion.”

“You are  _so_  unfair to me.” Hawke drops off a jut of rock above him, landing in a graceful crouch.

The slope levels out, and Fenris doesn’t need to put so much effort into not falling on his face. “Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to endure it for some time yet.”

Hawke raises an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

“Because there’s nothing in this world that can keep me from your side.” Fenris comes up, takes Hawke’s face in both hands, and kisses him.

Hawke grins again, strokes Fenris’s hair. “Does this world have anything that can keep you from mocking me like that?”

Fenris kisses him one more time, then turns to go, heading once more toward the mine. “Perhaps if you stop falling out of trees every time you decide to come tell me what you’ve found.”

A startled laugh. “I should have guessed.”

——

It’s not quite a death trap, but it’s close enough.

Hawke’s estimate turns out to be perilously low, his half-dozen multiplying to fifteen soldiers lurking within the mine—and that’s only those who appear to aid their comrades. Worse, with such advantage in numbers, they manage to press Fenris through the cave mouth and into the tunnels, where his greatsword becomes a liability—the walls are too close, and he can’t bring it to bear, the long steel blade catching and scraping, nearly tugged out of his hands more than once by the irregular rock.

The close space, at least, whittles down the forces arrayed before him. Only two soldiers pursue him now, their blows unskilled but effective enough, as Fenris can’t counter, can hardly put together a decent block. He knows the reprieve won’t last. Tunnel mouths yawn to either side of him. No doubt the rest are finding another route, all the better to surround him. That won’t end well—he can hardly deal with two. He’s pushed back further and further, the daylight fading out, replaced by flickering torches and…something else. Some illumination that lends his surroundings an eerie red cast. For a second his heart lurches and pounds as his attackers become demons, their bared teeth painted with blood, skin soaked with it. But no. Just a trick of the light.

Footsteps behind him. That’s it. He can’t even turn around, much less hope to deal with attacks from both sides. The battle is lost.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t live to fight again. He drops his greatsword. The two in front of him hesitate for a second, confused—but just a second, the first lunging forward, her arms coiled tight. She thrusts her shortsword straight through Fenris’s middle.

But by then he’s a ghost.

He tried this a few times when he was younger. Letting the lyrium take his limbs and turn them spectral was never all that difficult. The rest of him—his head, his trunk—that was harder. He could never sustain it for any practical amount of time, and it always felt  _strange_ , like he was cramming his entire self into a tiny, superdense mass at his center, like he was trying to become a speck of sand, suspended in the shifting void of his ghost-body.

Then Larannis happened, and he and the lyrium reached an understanding.

He can hear more fighting deeper in the mine. Hawke. Who can hold his own in cramped quarters, at least better than Fenris, although the numbers will wear him down eventually. He needs to be told to retreat. But Fenris doesn’t want to lead reinforcements straight there. So he takes a step sideways.

The stone breaks over his face like water, cool and steady around him. He can’t see anything, and can feel only in broad terms—the graininess of the rock is lost, the moisture in the cracks and pores. Still, he’s hidden, and he can’t help smiling as imagines the confused soldiers staring at the impassive wall, wondering where in the Void he went. For a few seconds he just stands there. It’s odd—now that he knows how to use the lyrium (or it knows how to be used), the sensation of becoming a phantom is quite different. Before, he was condensing himself down into a tiny shuddering fleck. Now he’s having trouble keeping himself together. If he lets his concentration go, he’s afraid he’ll fly apart, saturating the entire cliffside with his dissolute body.

Then, when he thinks it’s safe, he sticks his head out.

They’re gone. Good. He steps into the tunnel, standing on the chopped-up stone. Or perhaps floating just above it. It’s hard to tell. So he releases the lyrium, the heaviness returning to his limbs. But it’s something of a relief. No longer the fear that he’s going to disperse like smoke in a breeze.

Fenris cocks his head a moment and listens for the sound of fighting. It drifts toward him in far-off clangs and cries, distorted by the tunnels. He turns and heads deeper into the mine.  

The warmth of the torchlight loses ground as he walks, devoured by that alien red cast. Fenris grimaces. They were supposed to be mining veridium here, but he suspects there’s another substance they were after. He hasn’t seen any deposits—or eruptions, rather, considering the stuff  _grows_ —yet somehow its glow still coats him in eager red. His markings begin to itch, ever so slightly, and he shivers. He needs to find Hawke and get them both out of this place.

The scrape of approaching soldiers. Again he fades into the wall, hovering just inside, the slap of bootsteps shivering dully through the rock to reach his ears. Then they, too, have gone, and he emerges. As he continues on, he reflects on how it’s rather a good thing Danarius’s methods were imperfect. With a ghost at his disposal—a martially-trained one, no less—he could have manipulated the politics of his position to even further heights.

Fenris smiles to himself. Instead, this power is his own. And he’s using it to kill Tevinters.

He takes a left. The fighting’s definitely louder this way. Good. There’s a cross-tunnel up ahead, and Fenris jumps as a soldier lands flat on his back at the intersection, dispatched a second later when a throwing knife lands with a liquid  _thunk_  in his throat. And then Hawke appears, dancing over the corpse. He sees Fenris, their eyes catching on each other before Hawke finishes his whirl of a dodge and tacks sideways, going down the tunnel opposite Fenris. His two attackers follow.

Too easy. The soldiers are flanked now, and by the time they realize the fact, it’s too late. Fenris is upon them, his spectral arms diving through their chests. Then he releases the lyrium, the sensation rushing up to meet him, the warm flush of still-living flesh wrapped messily around his forearms.

Screaming, as always, but it trails off as they lose the breath for it. Fenris lets their bodies slide to the ground and shakes himself to get rid of the worst of the gore. “There are too many, and we can’t fight them here. We need to leave.”

“Agreed.” Hawke starts back the way he came. “If we run into any more of them…”

“I’ll stay out of your way.” Fenris follows, stepping over more of Hawke’s handiwork, dead faces gaping at the ceiling.

Hawke’s lead is quick and sure, and Fenris doesn’t question it. His own sense of direction is…fickle. And he halts when Hawke does, sure he’ll hear it in a second or two—and there it is, more bootsteps. Fenris draws on his markings, and the lyrium turns him once more into an assemblage of nothing, like light caught on dust motes—he the light, and the susurrations of space the specks on which he may be perceived by more substantial eyes.

They come around the corner ready to fight. Hawke backs up, and Fenris steps sideways into the wall. The advantage he has here is nothing but unfair—narrow, winding mineshafts, and he the only one able to move about unrestricted. Still, Hawke doesn’t have that advantage, and escape is the better option. Fenris advances through the cool stone, going once more to flank their opponents.

And then something…catches.

As if his armor snagged on a jutting nail. Frantic—what will happen if he tries to materialize inside a rock wall?—he throws himself sideways, holding desperately onto the lyrium, wrapping it close around him. He stumbles into the tunnel.

And into (or through, rather) the two soldiers who are beating Hawke back. Finding themselves all of a sudden intersecting with another person, they lose their focus to fear (Fenris can’t fault them for that), and Hawke is there to fill the opening, taking them both out with a tetrad of quick stabs. He raises an eyebrow at Fenris. “Misjudged that one a bit, did you?”

“I—“  _Something happened._  No. Later. “We should move on.”

Hawke avoids the main entrance and instead points them to a vertical shaft covered over by a stack of solid wooden pallets. Fenris takes care of that, ghosting through the barrier (still that sense of  _catching_ —he scrambles out quickly) and, finding no resistance, shoves the pallets out of the way and pulls Hawke up onto the emerald grass.

“Maker’s breath.” Hawke winces, holding his ribs. “I think she might’ve broken something.”

“You’re injured?” Fenris supports him with a slight pang of guilt—he himself didn’t do much down there except run away.

Then Hawke’s hand clamps around his arm and pulls it away.

Fenris flinches, the grip so tight it’s painful. Hawke relaxes some but doesn’t let go. “You—your markings.”

His markings? Fenris squints down, then freezes.

Something swims there, in the broad stripe of white-blue that splits his forearm. Something tiny and red. Like a wound, but mobile and alive.

Fenris jerks away, stepping back, back, separating himself from Hawke. He won’t spread this to anyone else.

“Fenris—“ Hawke starts to approach, unsteady. “We need—we need help. We can’t fix this on our own.”

“Are you—certain?” Fenris stares at it, the red sliver making its languid way down toward his wrist. “Did you see it, in the mine?”

“Yes. A couple of veins, only a tiny bit exposed, but there had to be more in the walls.” Panic breaks Hawke’s face (impossible, Fenris thinks, Hawke doesn’t panic, always has everything completely in hand). “Please. Neither of us known anything about it. We need  _help.”_

Fenris holds his arm away from him. As if that’ll do any good. “Is there…is there even a way to change it back?”

The silence hangs just a second too long. There isn’t. Not that’s known to anyone in Thedas, at least. Hawke must be aware of that. And yet— “We’ll go to Skyhold. It’s not far, and they might have what we need.”

Not far. Right. There’s no telling how long he has before…

Fenris has seen what red lyrium does. The sunken-eyed paranoia, the mindless rage, the pure whimsical madness. “I don’t want that to happen to me,” he mumbles.

Hawke is there, and kisses him gently. “I won’t let it. You won’t fall to this.”

A hollow promise. Hollow as his body when his lyrium sublimes it. He’s terrified to do that now, to call on his markings at all. There’s no cure. Red lyrium devours. Rock, flesh, sanity, anything it touches.

“Yes. Let’s—let’s go.” Fenris stares at the ground, guilt painting the back of his throat with a sour metallic taste. He should be telling Hawke to keep his distance. To imprison him somehow, or even to kill him now, before it’s too late and he turns on everything around him.

But he doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want to lose all of this. Not yet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, I have to say that what Fenris thinks of Hawke in this chapter makes slightly more sense if you’ve read previous stories that include my Hawke. But if not, just know that this Hawke’s a rogue, so he prefers to solve situations with subtlety and deception (rather than, say, brute force). The Inquisition starts appearing next chapter.

Fenris stares at his hand.

Two more days to Skyhold. It will be fine, he thinks to himself. One day gone already and the only sign of sickness was the nightmares.

Not even a nightmare. He was fighting, which is almost a daily activity recently. His opponents were frightened of him. He charged through them, feeling the warmth of their solid flesh blot into his insubstantial body, then took them apart. It was easy. A relief. Blood poured slick onto the ground, but he kept his footing. Then turned around.

Hawke was there too, watching him.

It wasn’t the coolness. Fenris is used to that. Hawke has the remarkable ability to shunt aside all emotional attachments and make the most utile decision for any given situation. As part of an operation to cripple the slave trade in Kirkwall, he let Danarius take Fenris—for only a few hours, but still. Fenris knows this about him and doesn’t mind. Finds it rather admirable, in fact.

In the dream, it wasn’t the coolness in Hawke’s face, the distance, that gave him pause. Instead, it was the satisfaction. The same look Danarius used to have, when his weapon accomplished its deadly purpose.

Fenris stood there, the tide of blood washing over his bare feet, and didn’t know what to do.

Only to be woken by someone murmuring his name. “Fenris? Are you all right? You’ve gone board-stiff.”

 _Are you well? Or has my blade dulled?_  Fenris jerked away, anger hissing to the surface. “I’m fine.”

No response. Fenris sensed something wasn’t right, and flipped over to find Hawke staring at him bewildered. It all crawled back then, the truth of the matter, how Hawke doesn’t use him but loves him.

And he leaned forward, kissed Hawke, and apologized.

In the morning things were back to normal, Fenris receiving gentle concern and Hawke’s own brand of injected lightness to smooth over the situation. But it still rubs like sandpaper at the back of his mind. That expression seemed so…natural on Hawke’s face. Has he seen it there before?

Now, guiding his horse beneath towering trees hung with thick jade moss and vines in vibrant magenta, he stares at his hand and tries to find the flitting worm of red that made its home in his markings yesterday.

It’s not there anymore. Not in his arm, at least. Perhaps it’s spread elsewhere, or simply disseminated like an ink blot in water. Are his tattoos the same crystalline white-blue they’ve always been? Or is there a hint of violet there today?

He exhales, annoyed. Paranoia. A sign of the infection. He banishes it to the back of his mind and grasps the reins again.

They ride on, the ground sloping ever upward, the trees beginning to thin out at last. Hawke keeps Fenris talking. Mostly it’s memories of Kirkwall. Of the best times in his life, when had started not just to leave his past behind him but, cautiously, to look toward the future. To stop running and stand instead, to build a life, something permanent and  _his._

On any other day he could talk about these things for hours. But right now he’s too afraid, worried that if he exposes the memories he’ll lose them to the lyrium madness. Hawke chatters away beside him, pausing now and then to wince when the riding jars his injured ribs.  _Do you remember when Isabela got drunk and decided to—ow—stow away on a galleon and we didn’t see her for three weeks? And she came back with a new husband and a pet macaw?_  Yes.  _…she—it’s a shame the man left so soon. I rather liked him. At least she kept the macaw for a bit._  Yes.

By the evening they’ve almost reached the highlands, the trees largely giving way to hardy scrub, the emerald grass losing its hold on pale juts of speckled sandstone. The horses have been at a light canter for a good portion of the day, so Hawke suggests they stop at sunset and make camp. Fenris gives him a silent nod.

It’s still bothering him. That satisfied expression—he’s  _sure_  he’s seen it before, in real life. On Hawke. He goes to gather firewood, hoping the time alone will help him think.

It doesn’t, much, except to convince him that he’s right. It’s too familiar. Hawke’s not there when he returns with his armful of dead sticks, so he builds the fire himself, striking the flint until a spark finally catches the yellow grass and sets it to smoldering. At last Hawke appears, his bow slung over his shoulder, two hares dangling from his hand. “Hungry?”

He isn’t, in fact—odd, they’ve only eaten once today. But he nods anyway.

Hawke flays the rabbits with precise quickness and sets them to roast over the fire. Fenris watches the flesh start to wrinkle and brown, listens to the snap of flames. “Hawke?”

“Hm?”

“Was there ever a time…” How to present this without sounding accusatory? “Perhaps early on, when we’d only just met. Was there a time when you thought of me as just—a hired blade? Someone who only—“

“No. Never.” Hawke doesn’t even let him finish, comes around the fire to sit beside him. “From the first night I met you, I knew you were something— _special_ , ridiculous as that sounds. But you seemed to me extraordinary, even then. And I wanted to know you. As a person, not a sword-for-hire.” A sheepish grin. “I think I’ve always been a little bit smitten, if we’re being  _completely_  honest.”

“Oh.” Fenris shifts, pulls his knees up to his chest.

“Why? Is something wrong?”

“No, I—I had a nightmare, that’s all.” He rubs his eyes. “Silly of me to give it any real thought.”

Hawke rests a hand on his back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Fenris half-smiles at the crackling fire. “Not particularly, no. But thank you.”

Hawke kisses him on the cheek and then rises to turn the spit. A drop of grease falls into the fire with a hiss.

Fenris watches the light flutter across Hawke’s features. He didn’t see any tells, hear any quavers of falsehood. But then again, Hawke is an excellent liar. There’s no way to know whether or not he was being deceptive.

No answers. Still that satisfied expression, looming ever-present in Fenris’s mind. He pushes his black-dyed bangs out of his face and tries to think of happier times.

Later he allows Hawke to examine his tattoos (since he himself can’t exactly inspect the ones on his back). The air has cooled with the onset of night, making him shiver as he strips off his clothes. He’s relieved to find that Hawke’s touch is still a comfort, and relaxes into it, even the shivering abating.

At last Hawke steps back with a long sigh. “Well, the good news is I don’t see that red sliver anywhere.”

A preface of good news implies bad news to come. Fenris dresses slowly, waiting.

“But I think they’re changing color. Your tattoos. I think…they’re more purple now, just a little.”

Damn. Fenris wraps his cloak around him, the cold returning, spidering up his arms. He was right. It wasn’t paranoia.

“We’ll get an early start tomorrow. All right?” Hawke comes up and holds him for a moment, kissing him, stroking his hair.

Fenris stands there, clutching his cloak, and shivers.

——

_“Hold still.”_

Fenris cracks an eye.

Hawke bends over him, tilts his chin to one side.  _“Let me take a look at your tattoos.”_

The grass is cool under his skin—his skin? Fenris realizes then he’s naked except for his underclothes, his markings exposed to the air. “What are you doing?”

_“Calm down. You’ll only make this take longer.”_

“Would you just—“ He curls up off the ground and tries to shove Hawke away.

But Hawke’s on top of him, and too heavy anyway.  _“I said hold still.”_ He pins Fenris’s wrist to the grass with one hand, examines the lines curling up his forearm.

“Let me go.” He yanks but can’t break Hawke’s iron grip, even twisting to scrabble at the man’s fingers with his free hand. “Hawke, let me go!”

_“No.”_

Fenris cries out as his other arm is slammed to the dirt and pinned under Hawke’s boot. Then a knee drives into his middle, and he can’t breathe, can only struggle for air—

Hawke rolls his eyes as if dealing with an unreasonable child.  _“Relax, Fenris. I’m not going to hurt you.”_  Inspecting the branches of violet-white at Fenris’s palm—

“Why are you—“ Fenris wheezes. “Why are you doing this?”

 _“It’s for_ your  _benefit. I don’t know why you’re resisting so much.”_  Then Hawke grabs Fenris’s jaw and twists it to the side, frowning at the lines that run up his neck.

For a moment Fenris stills. This is Hawke. The only person he trusts completely. And yet this—he swore to himself he would never again be controlled. Not by anyone. Not even by the man who’s supposed to love him. So he calls on his markings, gathering the savage potential in the lyrium lines and preparing to—

The energy writhes and roars, breaking its tether and rampaging free. Fenris feels as if his skin is being burned right off. Red bolts of static snap and surge over him, and he screams, thrashing beneath Hawke, whose frown only grows more severe.  _“I told you to hold still, can you not do even that much?”_

Fenris tries to say something, stutters out a plea— “H-help me!”

Hawke says nothing, remains perfectly unmoved.

Fenris starts screaming again as the red sickness devours him. Meanwhile, Hawke keeps him pinned, gazing down at him coolly, disappointed.

——

“Fenris!  _Ow—_ Fenris, it’s just a nightmare, please, you’re going to— _ow_ —hurt yourself—“

He wakes at last.

A crackling noise. He flinches hard, looks down at himself—but there are no lashes of red crawling up his (clothed, he notices) body. It’s not the red lyrium. Just the sound of the campfire, the last logs still burning down.

Another sound makes its way to him. Breathing. Labored breathing. He turns.

Hawke’s sitting there in the tossed-up grass, holding his damaged ribs, jaw clenched. Fenris doesn’t move. Hawke didn’t help him, so why should he help Hawke?

“You were thrashing around like demons were on you.” A wince, another shuddering breath. “I tried to wake you up. It was—hard.”

 _Afraid you were going to lose your sharpest weapon?_  Fenris remains silent.

Hawke looks up, open concern breaking through the pain on his face. “Are you hurt? With all that thrashing I was worried you were going to injure yourself.”

Concern. Because Hawke loves him—or that’s one possibility, and the one Fenris has believed all this time. So perhaps it shouldn’t be discarded just yet. “I…no. I am fine. But you…”

“Oh, don’t worry about me. Not the first time I’ve had to deal with broken ribs.” He assembles a grin.

Fenris nods, instinct telling him to go to Hawke. But suspicion tempers it, and instead he lies down again, watching the flames struggle against the cool, heavy dark.

——

“Rise and shine! Well, not quite  _shine_ , I’ll admit. But it shouldn’t be long.”

Fenris shifts and stirs, shaking off the hand that grasps his shoulder. It withdraws quickly. He rubs his eyes and sits up.

The sun hasn’t risen yet, but between the distant shapes of the Frostbacks the sky is a gradient of burgeoning color, lavender cloaking the peaks of the mountains while in the gullies between them a pale yellow wells. Thin wisps of cloud contour the brimming band of light. The colors remind him of…something. He frowns, combing his memory for the connection. An image jogs. Stone walls, and maybe…red? He presses his palms to his temples, frustrated.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Hawke, over by the horses. Fenris decides not to dignify such insincerity with a response. Instead he gets to his feet, stretching, coaxing the cracks out of his back. His cloak is damp from the dew, and a light mist sits on the rocky plain.

“Do you mind eating as we ride?” Hawke says. “I…I’d like to get there sooner rather than later.”

“I’m not hungry.” Fenris comes over and mounts his horse. His tattoos pulse faintly, the same color as the the predawn glow cloaking the distant peaks.

Hawke rides beside him. Likely to keep an eye on him. Wouldn’t want the lethal elf who follows his every whim to run off, now. Fenris considers it, pictures himself spurring his horse and galloping off across the plain. But Hawke is more than proficient with a bow, and could bring down the animal easily, or even Fenris himself, if he were displeased enough.

So they go on.

Again Hawke tries to make conversation. But Fenris has grown tired of pretending, and he offers not even the barest of responses today, except to answer inquiries into his wellness with simple affirmations. And that only because he fears rousing Hawke’s towering anger. He’s seen what it can do. Heard the agonized screams of that squad captain in the mountain under Emirius, saw the trail of bodies in the keep at Larannis, the dozen stab wounds splitting Cornelia’s stomach and chest.

Hawke is dangerous. Fenris might be able to survive an altercation with him, but only if he can draw on the lyrium. And infected as it is, he doesn’t know how much it’ll support him here.

The sun ascends in front of them, setting the dew to sparkling. The plains grow yet more barren, the grass hardy and yellow, shrubs squat and stiff, hardly moving in the whistling breeze. Fenris’s bangs are blown out of his eyes, and his horse’s mane lifts and flutters as it trots over the plain.

With every step they take, dread rises in the pit of Fenris’s stomach, heavy and soft, like the bottom of an hourglass filling with sand. How far will Hawke go to protect his weapon? He’s already met with the Inquisition and likely has friends there. Powerful friends, who will help him when he asks. And even if they hesitate, Hawke is a master manipulator. He’ll get them to do as he wishes. Perhaps if the threat of madness is the problem, the inability to fight efficiently, he’ll try to wipe away Fenris’s mind as one does with the Tranquil. As Danarius did with his memories, long ago. A blank slate on which to create a perfect tool. Fenris hunches in the saddle. Not that Hawke needed a blank slate in the first place. When they met Fenris was volatile and full of rage, and  _still_  Hawke tamed him into something useful, loyal, utterly under control.

How could he have let this happen?

Perhaps simply because he didn’t know any better. A twitch of movement to Fenris’s left catches his gaze. A hare, wide-eyed and lean, like the ones they had for dinner last night. It watches them pass, unperturbed. Unaware that Hawke could put an arrow through it in two seconds flat and end its life.

Fenris didn’t know. He was three years gone from Danarius’s grip, but he was running all the time, didn’t have the chance to figure out how things were supposed to work without a master to direct him. So of course he fell straight into the arms of someone else who was happy to give him orders.

It sounds pathetic in his head, but he can’t blame himself. It was Hawke, Hawke who took advantage of his naivety. Fenris tries to stay calm, but the agitation sets his tattoos alight with a faint lilac glow.

“Fenris?”

He nearly snaps back a reply but catches himself in time. When his voice comes out it’s as level as ever. Hawke’s not the only one who can lie. “Yes?”

“You seem—upset.”

Fenris looks up. Hawke’s displaying concern again. Fenris won’t fall for it anymore.  _You seem upset. Going insane before we even arrive? Can’t even hold it together for one more day?_ “I am…worried, that’s all.” The lie comes easily, spinning out of him like they spin out of Hawke, day in and day out. “The lyrium’s been a part of me for so long, yet I know almost nothing about it.”

Hawke heaves a sigh. “Well, if anyone can help, it’s the Inquisition. They’ve got  _dozens_  of mages there. Someone’s got to know  _something.”_

Fenris hears the frustration, and despite everything it makes him smile. Here’s one think Hawke can’t control.

And Fenris won’t be controlled either. The sun is high, the afternoon starting to warm a little. Hawke urges his horse into a canter, and Fenris follows suit. Having made up his mind, he finds he’s able to relax, the glow of his markings flickering out. He will have to wait—he needs the element of surprise on his side—but that will only give him time to anticipate the moment.

The sun falls at their backs as they go on. Even when the sky starts to darken Hawke pushes forward. Fenris narrows his eyes. The dark will be Hawke’s ally, not his. “Hawke,” he calls. “We should stop. The horses need a rest.”

It’s true enough—they’ve been held to a canter longer today than yesterday—although they’re well-bred Tevinter stock (stolen from some unfortunate Venatori) and could probably go longer. Still, Hawke nods his agreement. “Fine. We’ll stop over there.”

A copse of trees, the bark ghost-white even in the twilight. Birches. A shady grove won’t work in his favor either. So he just needs to make the first hit count. 

They tie the horses in a little clearing. Fenris is sore from riding, and he can tell Hawke is as well, from the way his posture slumps, how he holds his injured ribs. Good. Hawke is between the two animals, searching for something in the saddlebags. Slowly Fenris grasps the shortsword hilt that juts from his pack.

Then he smacks the horse’s side. It lets out a low snort and tries to move away, toward its partner—trapping Hawke between them. Hawke lets out a surprised “What—“

And that’s all he gets before Fenris is slinging himself up onto the horse’s back and stabbing down, driving the blade straight for Hawke’s throat.

But he’s not there anymore, damn him,  _damn_  him. Fenris moves, scrambling across the second horse’s back and down to the ground. The most important thing in a fight with Hawke is to keep moving.

There he is, circling, palms up as if offering peace. “Fenris, please just listen to me for a moment.”

“No! I’ve heard enough.” The lyrium throbs oddly under his skin. He curses in his head. The lyrium is his one advantage, and if he can’t depend on it—

“This  _isn’t you._  I’m not your enemy, the red lyrium’s just making you think—“

Fenris launches himself across the clearing. Making the first move with Hawke is never a good idea, but he’s tired of listening to this already. Hawke sways to the right, dances away. “Please, Fenris, we’ve been together all this time—”

“And all this time you’ve been  _lying to me!”_  Fenris attacks again, this time leading with a double feint.

Hawke grunts in surprise, and suddenly his daggers are in hand as he parries the real blow, lets it slide off to one side. “Fenris, I’m not—I haven’t lied about anything!”

“More lies!” Another pair of slashes. He grips the sword in both hands. There’s little difference between them in terms of range—Fenris’s weapon is longer, but his arms are shorter—so he’ll have to depend on raw power.

Hawke parries the first blow and dodges the second. “Please, Fenris, you  _must_  know the truth of it—we’ve known each other for years, you know I love you—“

“The worst one of all!” Fenris falters, steps back, his guard drifting down despite himself. “How could you—how could you do that? I believed in you. I  _needed_  you.” The terrible aloneness closes in on all sides, how in this blasted plain, this blasted continent, this entire damned world there’s no one,  _no one_  there for him. “And you just… _used_  me! Pointed me at your enemies and let me kill them like you would aim and loose an arrow—“

Hawke’s daggers fall, his stance slipping. “No, that’s not true! We worked together, you  _chose_  to come with me!”

“Because you made me that way.” Fenris’s chest grows tight, his voice deadening out. “You made me think I was loved. From one cruelty to another. I should have known. I am alone.”

“You aren’t. I’m here.” He starts to come closer. “ _Please_ , Fenris, I love you more than—“

Only to arch back as Fenris takes another swing.

Fenris doesn’t let up. He’s done thinking about it. Done talking. The aloneness is too much to bear, and he wants to hurt the one who enforced it, the one who deceived him all this time, left him with a decade of emptiness. Of wasted years.

Hawke won’t make even a single attack, and he’s quick, but he’s used to crippling his enemies and taking them down from there. Without going on the offense, he won’t be able to stand under the onslaught. Fenris presses forward. The two-handed grip is effective—it breaks blocks as he meant it to, and Hawke’s agile but not agile enough to avoid damage entirely. Fenris sees the blood on the edge of the blade, the pain on Hawke’s face, and renews his siege. He waits until he can build up to a particularly fast series of attacks, abandoning his two-handed grip in favor of maneuverability. Hawke will be able to block them. That’s fine.

But he won’t—doesn’t—see Fenris’s heel lashing out, landing squarely on his injured ribs.

Hawke gasps, doubling over. At last. Fenris flips the shortsword and stabs downward again, putting as much power as he can behind it.

Hawke raises a guarding arm. Stupid—his leather armor can’t protect him against this, and it doesn’t, the blade piercing straight through his forearm. But once it’s trapped there, Hawke twists his arm and redirects the stab. Instead of entering his chest, it instead slices through his outer thigh and then sinks a few inches into the rocky soil.

Fenris yells in frustration, a hoarse sound that tears its way out of his throat. He wrenches the sword back, eliciting a noise of agony from Hawke, and lifts it one more time—

—only to find himself flat on his back, his feet swept out from under him. “Damn you!” he shouts. “Void take you, Hawke, you and your  _lies—“_

Hawke’s on top of him, daggers abandoned. This close, the shortsword won’t be much help, so he leaves it on the dirt, knowing already he can’t do this—Hawke is the better grappler by far. Still, he does as much damage as he can while he can, jamming his knee up into Hawke’s ribs, savage joy ringing through him at the pain breaking Hawke’s face.

Then he’s on his side, Hawke behind him, a thick forearm around his neck. It’s the bleeding one, Hawke using his good arm to hold it in place. Fenris gasps for breath, trying to pry it away, jamming his fingers into the ragged hole in the flesh. No result but for another stifled cry of agony.

But of course. He can’t be restrained. By anything or anyone, not even Rowan Hawke. He calls on the lyrium, starts to draw it over him so he can become a ghost once more—

It flares, searing his skin, then sparking out. No. He needs it. Hawke’s hold is too strong. So he tries again, and it lurches to life, but only for a moment before it’s grinding down again, and he’s still trapped.

Fine. At least he figured out the truth. At least he did some damage. And he can do more. “You deserve this,” he hisses, with the last of his breath, his heartbeat pounding in his temples. “You deserve to be alone.”

His vision blurs and blackens. He tries to think of something happy, one last time, before the end. But there’s nothing. Hawke’s poisoned every good memory he thought he had.

So he curses Hawke again, with the last of his consciousness, as the world slides away from him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Dorian is not looked upon kindly here. This is because Hawke is the POV character and doesn’t like Dorian, not because of any vendetta on my part (I think he’s a good character). I tried to be as fair as I could here, all things considered. Additionally, this chapter contains spoilers for one of Varric’s personal quests in Inquisition.  
> This is, as mentioned, a Hawke POV chapter and...also the longest chapter yet. (SORRY! My Hawke's arc is very important to me.) But the next chapter is Fenris again.  
> Finally, I'm still obsessed with the lyrium, apologies for the chunks of made-up exposition.

Hawke lies there, staring up at the darkening sky with Fenris motionless on top of him.

Now that the thrill of battle is wearing off, his wounds are making themselves known. His jaw clenches and his eyes squeeze shut as he stifles a groan. A dozen slices all over, the familiar burn of wound pain eating at the edges of his thoughts. And below it all, the sharp throb of bone pain in his chest. That last kick may have broken another rib or two, in addition to the ones already cracked.

But none of it hurts like what Fenris said.

Not because of the accusations. Hawke knows that was the red lyrium, not how Fenris truly feels. The worst part was that Fenris—poisoned, confused, and afraid—thought Hawke had betrayed him. Thought he was alone.

The sky softens into a deep purple-black, dotted with the first glimmers of stars. The birches rim Hawke’s vision, swaying gently in the breeze, their sparse leaves worrying at the night. Far in the distance some animal howls, tender and high. The air grows humid and cool, gathering the first intimations of fog.

Hawke doesn’t move from where he lies, just holds Fenris’s sleeping form. As if that’ll help. He feels the blood pulsing from the stab wound in his forearm, trickling down his skin under the armor. There’s a list of things he needs to do,  _now._  Yet he stays.  _You’re not alone,_ he thinks.  _You’re not alone._

At last he shifts Fenris off him and sits up.

Nullify danger. The first priority. He stands, groaning, split flesh shifting in ways it’s not supposed to, and limps to the horses. They don’t spook when he nears—likely used to fighting and the smell of blood, having been owned by the Venatori. At the bottom of his pack he finds the kit containing all his poisons, and he plucks from it a near-empty bottle. This one is rare, specially formulated to last a long time in the body. Meant for keeping dangerous prisoners.

Like Fenris.

He tears Fenris’s sleeve at the shoulder and finds what he’s looking for—a shallow wound, sustained in the mine. Better to use one already open than make a second. Hawke peels the bandage away and pries the skin apart with care, breaking the scab until blood oozes from the cut. He opens it as far as he dares before tipping the bottle over it. A tiny black dot swells at at the dropper tip, then falls, followed by another, and another. He shakes the bottle a little and coaxes a fourth drop from it, but that’s all that’s left.

All right. That should keep him out for a good long while.

Next Hawke checks himself over. Most of his injuries aren’t bad. A couple of them are. The hole in his forearm, of course. And that slice on his outer thigh. Plus a nasty cut into the meat of his hip. He starts in on the stitches, letting one flow into the next rather than separating them out. Messy and not very stable, but they’re only temporary. When he reaches Skyhold, someone can help him.

But there’s no one here. He’s alone.

He kneels and kisses Fenris, kisses him again. Knows it isn’t felt. An empty gesture. Trying to fix something that can’t be fixed now and likely can’t be fixed at all.

He’s always known their chances were poor at best. Pure lyrium is effectively an unknown quantity, despite centuries of study. And with this horrifying mutation—yes, it is possible that someone in the Inquisition will know enough to help Fenris. There’s a sliver of a chance.

But no more than that.

He slides his arms under Fenris’s sleeping body and—slowly—rises.

His stitched wounds pull tight, and he staggers and gasps, almost falls over as his bad leg flares with pain. But he trudges forward. He’s the only one who can do this. Without him, Fenris is insane or dead for sure. Fenris, whom he cares about more than anyone else in the world, who  _doesn’t deserve_  this awful sickness.

Getting Fenris onto the back of a horse is…trying. But Hawke manages it, with patience. A half-dozen times he must stop, press his forehead to the animal’s flank, and convince himself not to give up. Always he returns to the fact that he is the only one. There is no other way.

Mounting is also trying. But at last he’s sitting in the saddle, readying his sore legs for more long hours of riding. Fenris is guided upright, and Hawke reaches around in front of him, binding his hands to the saddle horn and covering them with a blanket to deflect suspicion. Finally Hawke settles back, letting Fenris’s limp form lean against his chest. The lyrium normally provides some measure of recovery from physical ailments, and Hawke’s not sure if that extends to poisons. If Fenris wakes early, Hawke wants to hear the intake of breath, feel the muscles tensing. A half-second of warning is better than none.

The second horse, tied to the first, follows obediently. Hawke takes them at a walk. A harsher pace might wake his sleeping passenger.

And anyway, his damned ribs have been jarred enough today already.

——

The horse starts to tire when they enter the mountains, blowing air through its nose, shaking its head. Hawke switches then, despite the painful business of dismounting and ferrying Fenris over to the second horse. Rather get them to Skyhold slightly later than have to slog the last portion on foot because he pushed his animals too far.

He’s tired too, his eyes grainy, his muscles feeling like they’re made of cotton. Didn’t sleep much last night. The twingeing of his ribs, of course, but also whatever nightmare tore Fenris’s head apart. That might have been the scariest thing he’s seen since this whole business with Corypheus began. Fenris’s back arching, heels dug into the ground, and then the thrashing began, like he was clawing to get away from…Hawke thought demons, at first. Unlikely. Fenris isn’t afraid of demons. And all efforts to wake him produced only more bruises on Hawke’s end, but he kept trying, couldn’t lose Fenris, not yet, not like this…

And the suspicion after. Hawke knew, then, that some part of Fenris was lost already. So he stayed awake, lest he be attacked in his sleep. And his guard’s been up since. That in itself is exhausting. But it gave him the presence of mind he needed to escape the assassination attempt this evening.

Fenris slumps back against him as the slope rises, and Hawke kisses his shoulder, hoping vaguely the gesture will make it through, will restore some of that bone-deep trust.

Which apparently wasn’t so deep after all. Hawke shuts his eyes for a moment. No. It was powerful, and it was real. It’s just the damn red lyrium.

The air dries out as they climb, patches of snow appearing on the rock. A patrol stops him once, asks him by torchlight what his business is with the Inquisition.  _Seeking aid for my friend._  That seems good enough. Hawke’s eye catches a flicker of movement further up the pass. Probably a scout, gone to bring news of his arrival. A man approaching in the wee hours of the morning, with two Tevinter horses and what could be a prisoner. Eyebrow-raising, to say the least.

That’s fine. It just means he’ll have someone waiting at the gate to escort him in, even if it is in chains.

He thinks he falls asleep in the saddle. Isn’t quite sure. The narrow pass seems endless, the half-moon unmoving. A cold mountain wind penetrates his cloak and armor, and he shivers, hoping Fenris is warm enough. Their pace is slow, but the horses go on steadily. Good. If this one started making complaints, Hawke isn’t sure he’d have the strength to shift Fenris again.

Then the wall of rock falls away and Skyhold looms.

In his relief he lets go of his riding posture and nearly slides out of the saddle. But he rights himself, flicks the reins to push the horses into a trot. As soon as he’s done it the regret lances through him in the form of grinding pain shooting out from his broken ribs, but he’s not about to stop. Fenris needs help. Now.

The gates rise as he approaches. And beyond them a diminutive figure, waiting. Please let it be— “Varric, is that you?” Hawke calls out.

“Hawke! Didn’t think we’d see you again so soon!”

Thank the Maker. He needs a friendly face right about now. “To be honest, I wasn’t exactly planning to come back. Much as I missed you.”

Varric grins, the moonlight reflecting off the gold trim of his coat. “Well, we’re happy to have you, and Fenris. Or—I am, at least. No guarantees on anyone else’s part.”

Hawke guides the horses inside, between the two guards, and the gate begins its slow descent behind him. “Listen, much as I would love to talk, we’re here for help.”

Now that Varric’s up close, his face creases into a frown. “Maker’s breath, Hawke, you look like a dragon just chewed you up and spat you out on our doorstep.”

“I’m fine.” He leans forward and slips his hands under the blanket, untying Fenris’s wrists from the saddle horn.

A sigh. “Are you really doing the ‘I just fought a dozen guys and got stabbed fifteen times but I’m actually fine and nothing you say can convince me otherwise’ thing again?”

Hawke musters a weak grin. “You know me too well.” The blanket slips off the horse’s back and pools on the ground.

“Hawke—“ The sharp note of surprise disrupts the warm reunion. “Why is Fenris tied down like that? And—um—unconscious?”

Hawke pauses, slumps forward for a second, his forehead resting on Fenris’s back. “He was poisoned.”

“With what?”

He hesitates to say it. But it’ll have to be said sooner or later. “Red lyrium. It’s in his markings. I was hoping you all could help.”

Silence, but for the whistle of wind, a wagon wheel squeaking somewhere across the courtyard, the crunch of gravel as one of the soldiers backs away. Hawke keeps at his task, unwrapping the rope until Fenris’s hands fall free.

“Hawke.”

“I know, no one knows anything about red lyrium except that it’s incredibly dangerous.”

“No, that’s—that’s not what I was going to say.”

Hawke looks down at him.

“We have some—new information.” Varric can barely meet his eye. “Found out what turns lyrium red like that. It’s…it has the Blight.”

He doesn’t have to go on.  _There’s no cure for Blight sickness._  Hawke knows it well, saw how the Blight ravaged the south of Ferelden before he fled, saw how it made the strongest woman he knows decide that killing her husband was a better choice than trying to save him. “I just…” There’s no cure. “I just need to try. Please.”

“Of course, but Hawke—you gotta start thinking about what happens if—“

“You don’t have to tell me, Varric.”

“Yeah, I know.” He gestures. “Come on, let’s bring him inside.”

Hawke slips out of the stirrups and dismounts. The shock of landing goes straight to his sliced thigh, and the leg gives beneath him. He buckles, about to crack his head on the gravel—

A pair of stocky arms hauls him back upright. “Nice one. You still going to try and tell me you’re fine?”

Hawke rubs his eyes. “Listen, just because my dismounts haven’t improved in ten years doesn’t mean you have to rub it in my face.”

Varric shakes his head. “Some people just never change.”

Fenris has apparently been saved from sliding off the horse by the gate guard who didn’t back away at the first mention of red lyrium. She takes him down with care, hissing something at her partner, who, hesitating, approaches at last. Hawke goes over to help, only to be stopped by Varric’s hand pressing gently to his chest. “Let me do this much.”

The gate guards form a seat of sorts, clasping their arms together, and Varric hauls Fenris into the carry. “How long has he been comatose like this?”

“Er…” Hawke sighs. “Since I dosed him with the Captor’s Hand.”

“Wait, you— _poisoned him?”_

“It’s a long story.” Hawke starts for the keep.

Varric walks at his side. “Well, we’ve got plenty of templars here who’ve seen red lyrium up close and personal, but they’re not equipped to know much about it. And most of the mages who’ve come to us…they’re looking for safety. No one wants to get near the stuff, much less spend time tinkering with it. I don’t know how much help we have to offer, to be honest.”

“How’d you find out about this…Blight thing then?” Hawke climbs the stairs, his sore legs shaking with every step.

Varric stops, falling behind a couple of yards. Hawke pauses at at the landing and waits for him. Varric shakes his head. “I’ll tell you about it later. Let’s bring him up the tower. Leliana’s going to learn about this sooner or later, we might as well be up front about it.”

——

“No.”

Varric falters a little, but tries again. “Come on, Nightingale, if it weren’t for Hawke we would never have found out about—“

“And I will always be grateful for that, but—to bring red lyrium into  _Skyhold?_  It’s too dangerous.” She folds her arms. “Hawke, you’re always welcome here, but your friend cannot stay.”

Hawke sits slumped in a wooden chair, feeling vaguely insubstantial. He’s just realized that it didn’t end when he arrived here. The journey was but half the battle—or a quarter, or a tenth, more likely. There will be no rest for some time yet, and he hasn’t the faintest idea if he can hold out to see it through. But he must. There’s no one else. “All right then. What do you suggest I do with him?”

Leliana presses her lips together in an annoyed frown.

Hawke nods at her. “It’s all right, you can say it. Could turn him loose into the wilds, where he won’t find anyone to hurt. Probably starve to death in a few weeks. A greater mercy just to slash his throat now. And that  _would_  be the safer route.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” she says quietly. “But you had to know he was—“

“Come on!” Varric interjects. “I’m not saying you have to  _order_  anybody to examine him, just ask around for volunteers—“

“So we allow the naive to expose themselves to unknown danger?” Leliana rounds on him. “I think not!”

“He was in that mine for  _us,_  you can’t just abandon him to—“

“They knew the risks!” She gestures at Hawke. “As we all do!”

“If the Inquisitor were here—“

“Well, she’s not, is she?”

Hawke lets the fighting wash over him, gazing at Fenris’s sleeping form, laid out on the table, his wrists once more bound. It’s much easier to see now, his markings blushing an angry red, fading to white at the edges. He feels badly letting Varric argue for him. Varric isn’t the argumentative type, but will do it for Hawke. Still, he shouldn’t be left to fend for himself. Hawke grasps the arms of the chair and gets his feet under him, rising—

“My goodness, what  _is_  all this shouting?”

Varric’s face lights up at the new arrival. Hawke’s not entirely sure why.

The man is Tevinter. His accent says that much, and his style of clothing. Hawke comes round the table, putting himself between the man and Fenris.

“Dorian!” Varric saunters closer. “Meet Rowan Hawke.”

“How do you do?” Dorian shows a brilliant smile. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. I never got a chance to say hello when you were here last.”

Hawke is relieved the man doesn’t offer a handshake. “What do you want?”

“So, Dorian,” Varric cuts in. “You’re a mage.”

In the back Leliana shuts her eyes. An acknowledgement of defeat. The secret is out.

“I…am.” His gaze drifts past Varric, to the table where Fenris lies sleeping. “Is there any reason you’re reminding me of the fact?”

Varric hesitates only a second before charging ahead. “So, how do you feel about trying to cleanse some red lyrium?”

The Tevinter’s smile cracks in half. Hawke would think it amusing if he weren’t grasping for even the most hateful of straws. But the man recovers quickly. “I would feel much better about it if there were a slightly  _smaller_  chance of me going stark raving mad.”

Well, that’s that. Hawke waves a hand. “Thanks for trying, Varric. But you might have more success if you manage to find someone with at least one compassionate bone in their entire body.”

Varric, for some reason, grins.

Dorian heaves a long-suffering sigh. “It’s because I’m Tevinter, isn’t it?”

Hawke shrugs, not particularly inclined to speak to this man any more than he has to.

“We’re not all evil power-hungry magisters who spill the blood of children for an afternoon’s diversion, you know. I did come here to lend my aid to the Inquisition, to the best of my ability.”

Hawke nods at him. “House Pavus? You’re a noble, then?”

“Yes.”

“Then your life is built on the blood of children. Elves. Anyone else your kin found disposable.” Hawke settles into the burgeoning anger, lets it fortify him. “But you, you’re worse even than they are. Pretending you’re somehow free of fault? It’s honestly pathetic.”

Dorian narrows his eyes at Hawke. “I’ll have you know I resent that comment.”

Hawke gazes coolly back. “I’ll have you know I don’t care.”

“Now, now.” Varric inserts himself between them, which doesn’t do very much—they simply stare daggers at each other over his head. “We’re all fighting the same war here, let’s not start fighting each other too.”

“What’s all this about red lyrium?” Dorian asks brightly.

“Right. Hawke’s, um, friend has been poisoned.” Varric gestures.

Leliana puts forth a half-hearted attempt to regain control of the situation. “Dorian, you don’t have to—“

“Nonsense! I’m happy to take a look.” He steps around the clutter of books and furniture to reach the table.

Hawke tamps down his anger as best he can (which isn’t well) and turns. Any help is a blessing at this point. “These markings, they’re not tattoos, they’re lyrium that’s been inscribed into him. I don’t know much about it, to be honest. They’re normally white-blue in color, and they give him…protection, certain abilities in combat. But we were in a red lyrium mine, and he came in contact with it, and…” He trails off. The evidence is obvious, the angry throb of red pulsing in the markings, like an infected wound.

“Amazing,” Dorian murmurs, pushing Fenris’s rolled-up sleeve higher over his elbow. “They’re  _very_  beautiful. And they grant him magical abilities, too?” Dorian shakes his head. “What an incredibly lucky man.”

Hawke’s fist slams into the table, toppling a pile of books onto the floor.

Dorian jumps away, then freezes. Even Varric is speechless, the only sound an exasperated sigh from Leliana. Hawke looks up, flashes a smile. “I don’t think lucky’s quite the word for it.”

“I…see.” Dorian approaches the table again, cautious. “Why—why don’t you tell me what you know while I examine him?”

“While you—“ Leliana breaks off.

“What’s the problem?” Varric asks. “He’s a willing volunteer. And we didn’t even have to go around asking.”

She’s silent for a moment, then nods curtly. “Fine. But keep him up here. No one else must know of this.” She starts to descend the stairs. “If he becomes a threat, I trust you all know what you must do. And if you don’t, I shall be waiting below to do it for you.”

Then she’s gone. Varric lets out a long breath. “Well, that was pleasant. Hey, Dorian, you going to need any help?”

“I’m about as qualified as anyone else in this place to work with red lyrium.” Dorian pulls up a chair and sits. “Which is to say, not at all. But I do have some experience healing, and I think that’s as good as we’ll get.”

“Good. I’ll leave you to it then.” He heads for the stairs.

“Wait!“ Dorian lurches toward him, then halts. “You’re—leaving me alone here?”

“You bet I am. Don’t want to be anywhere near that stuff.” He gives them a parting wave.

Dorian sinks into his chair, eyeing Hawke with trepidation. “Er…so. Where were we?”

Hawke wants to stay angry, but he’s too exhausted. Too exhausted to stand, actually, so he sits down as well and starts talking.

It doesn’t take very long. Even Fenris didn’t know much about the markings, and what he did know he had a hard time translating into words. As Hawke goes on, Dorian’s palms glow with what looks like healing magic—though it’s not the same moon-white as Anders’s was, the color instead purer, more brilliant. He frowns in concentration, but murmurs a question now and then to clarify something. When Larannis comes up he stiffens a little—either with sympathy or just an unwillingness to be confronted by the sins of his countrymen, Hawke isn’t sure. But he’s also more vocal, prying for details about this new and improved version of the lyrium, and especially how it managed to activate by itself. All Hawke has is a secondhand story, but he recounts it as best he can.

Then he falls silent. Dorian’s still working, a grimace crossing his face now and then. The first rays of dawn light begin to shine through the window. Hawke has a sudden urge to reach out and take Fenris’s hand. For all the damn good it’ll do. Fenris isn’t conscious and hates him right now anyway. Hawke yawns into his elbow. The familiar architecture of the riding ache is setting in—in his back, up either side of his spine, and in his legs. The burning of his wounds has dulled slightly with the hours, but the deeper ones in his thigh and hip hurt him every time he shifts. So he tries not to move, instead watching the pink-tinged light splash on the wall of the tower, blinking sleepily.

“Ser Hawke?”

He starts, rubbing his eyes. “‘Hawke’ is fine.”

“Er…all right then. Hawke. Would you like to know what I’ve found?”

At last. “Tell me.”

“The markings are rather…strange.” Dorian gestures vaguely at Fenris. “They  _are_  an integral part of him, but at the same time they’re self-contained. And they’re containing the infection.” He sits forward. “What you told me, about the lyrium protecting him—I think that’s what it’s doing, or trying to do. It’s keeping the infection inside the markings, so it doesn’t move to his body proper.”

Hawke leans closer. It makes sense—that’s why the red runs up the middle of the lines, still rimmed by white.

“And not only that, I think it’s actually trying to fight off the sickness. Only it’s losing. I feel like if he were only aware, could—activate it somehow—“

“He can’t.” Hawke shakes his head. “Before I came here, he—attacked me. We fought some, and then I put him in a chokehold. Realized what an idiotic plan that was a second later, since he could phase straight through it. But he couldn’t. I saw him trying. Whatever power those markings have, the Blight’s stripped it away.”

“It hasn’t,” Dorian says urgently. “The power’s there—for the moment, anyway. I can feel it being…corrupted. But there’s  _still enough_ , I’m almost certain of it! These markings are—formidable. If only—well, anyway. If the problem’s not in the power, then I’d guess it’s in the connection. He’s cut off from the lyrium. Maybe a defense mechanism, the same one that keeps the sickness from spreading.”

Hawke lifts an eyebrow, waiting for the important part to make its appearance.

Dorian hurries on. “ _So._  Fenris can’t activate his markings. Fortunately, there appears to be a backup plan built in.”

Hawke nods slowly. “In Larannis. When he was fighting four people and about to die, and the lyrium came to life and saved him.”

 _“Exactly!”_  An excited grin blooms on Dorian’s face, only to fall a moment later to Hawke’s murderous glower. “Sorry. Anyway, the Blight’s  _not technically killing him_. It’ll corrupt the lyrium and maybe turn him into one of those monstrosities we’ve seen among the red templars, but he’ll still be alive. So that backup plan hasn’t kicked in. But if we can activate it, then—I  _think_ —he’ll be able to burn away the infection under his own power. The first time anyone’s ever been cured of the Blight, in the  _history_  of Thedas!”

Hawke forces himself to remain where he is rather than taking that excitement and ramming it straight down the other man’s throat. “And how exactly do you suggest we activate this backup plan?”

Dorian hesitates, then gives an apprehensive shrug. “The…same way it happened last time, I suppose?”

Hawke just stares for a moment. Then he’s on his feet, his chair smacking into the wall and falling over, sending books and papers scattering across the floor. “He’s scared and alone and feeling more betrayed than he ever has in his entire life, and  _that’s_  the plan you come up with? You want to  _hurt him more?_  Unbelievable. And you wonder why I hate—“

An elbow jams hard into his ribs.

 _Again?_  he thinks, as he collapses to one knee.  _Did it have to be the ribs?_  A marked foot swings at his face, but he catches it, anticipates the second kick and blocks. “Slow him down!” he shouts.

Should have noticed. It’s easy to tell when someone’s faking sleep. The depth of breathing, the speed of the pulse where it beats closest against the skin. But he was too tired, too distracted with this damned Tevinter. He wonders how long Fenris has been awake. Not that it especially matters right now. He’s trapped between a toppled chair and an inconveniently intricate table stretcher, a dozen fancy crossbars connecting the legs and fencing him in. Another kick, too fast, and he hasn’t got a chance of avoiding it. Fenris’s foot strikes him square in the jaw.

Hawke’s head cracks on the stone floor, and he tastes blood, stars dancing before him. Hears the snarl:  _“I hope it hurts, Hawke, do you hear me?”_ He tries to push himself upright, but his vision spins in circles, and he wobbles, slipping back to the floor, waits for the heel descending to crush his throat.

But it doesn’t come. So he tries again to rise, and manages it this time, supporting himself on the fallen chair, wavering—

Fenris collapses forward into his chest.

Hawke catches him, letting out a noise of surprise, then stumbles, sitting back on a pile of books. Fenris sags against him, unconscious once more.

Stillness.

There’s a mutter from Dorian, across the room. “He’s asleep again. Finally. I apologize, it…was harder than I thought it’d be.”

Hawke’s barely listening. He pulls Fenris closer, overwhelmed suddenly, wanting only to escape and knowing that’s impossible. “Please forgive me,” he whispers. “You deserve better than this life with me. You deserve to be safe.”

Another second of silence, pressing close around them. Then a door bursting open, footsteps pounding up the stairs. Leliana appears, bow in hand. “Someone reported shouting, what happened?”

“He woke up,” Dorian answers. “But—it’s fine now. He’s out again. We’re all right.”

“…I see.” She takes a step back, halts, then turns and leaves them alone.

Hawke stays where he is, Fenris breathing quietly against his chest. He turns the situation over in his mind. But it lurches and grinds on its axis, the facets dull and blurred, catching no light. He’s just too tired, and there’s no time. No damned time.

At last he stands, slowly, with caution, and lays Fenris back down on the table. Then he steps back, wipes his scraped forehead, and swallows a mouthful of blood. “All right. Dorian. We’ll do it your way. I’ve got a plan.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be warned, this chapter has plenty of violence.

Waking seems to him like breaking the surface in a sea of sand. One that’s trying its hardest to drag him back under. He fights to stay afloat, but the sand traps his limbs, paralyzing them. He gulps in great breaths before it can fill his lungs too.

“The Captor’s Hand. Nasty substance. Tends to overstay its welcome.”

Hawke.

Fenris heaves himself forward on hands and knees, then collapses again as his muscles give. Damn it all. Where is that burst of energy that drove him before, when he planted his foot, with a vicious rush of joy, on Hawke’s jaw?

“You can stay down. I’ll give you a moment to shake it off.”

That…seems like a good idea. Fenris sits back and tries to figure out where he is.

The room is circular, the walls painted with abstract scenes whose meanings are lost on him. Looking up, he discovers he’s in a tower, and this the base of it—several yards higher a circumferential banister hangs. The exits—he whirls.

All blocked off by enormous chunks of ice, the ambient light setting them aglow in a soft crystalline blue.

“I think it’s time we laid this to rest.”

Hawke paces at the opposite wall, spinning his daggers in an absentminded flourish. Fenris curls his hands into fists, knuckles scraping against the rough stone floor. He sees the limp, the favoring of the right side. Good. He did some damage.

“I have to admit, I was surprised when you turned on me.” Hawke glances up, flashes a tired smile. “I thought things were going quite well. You seemed perfectly happy following orders.”

Fenris freezes. He had hoped he was wrong, hoped dearly, violently. But here it is, out in the open. He was not wrong after all. The knowledge is painful.

Hawke shrugs. “I don’t know why you decided to buck me all of a sudden. But an animal that can’t be broken isn’t much use, is it?”

Fenris rises, taking his time. The strength is flowing back into his limbs.

“Still. Out of respect for all those years you followed me, more faithful than any hound.” Hawke tosses one of his daggers. It spins across the floor, sliding to a stop by Fenris’s feet. “Here’s one last chance to defend yourself.” A stifled guffaw. “Though I’ll admit it’s not much of a chance. I’ve seen you, you can’t wield a dagger to save your life. Which—right now—you’ll have to.”

Fenris bends and plucks the knife from the floor. Hawke’s right. Daggers are his worst weapon. Weak sunlight filters down from the windows above, leaving half the room in shadow. His chances look poor, his only advantage Hawke’s injured state.

Fenris stares at the narrow steel blade, at the blur of his reflection, and tries to figure out where it all went wrong.

“Why…why would you do that to me? Trick me like that, for so long?” His voice shivers out of him. “All I wanted—all I wanted was to be free. But I’m going to die having never once known freedom. Why, Hawke?” He looks up.

Hawke’s face is clean, all hints of emotion chased away. “I suppose that’s just the sort of man I am.” Then a smile breaks out, with a faintly convulsive edge. “So? Are you going to take it out of me? Punish me for my heinous acts?”

Fenris’s grip tightens around the dagger hilt, the smooth leather compressing under his palm.

“This is your chance. The one thing you’ll get to do that’s truly yours.” Hawke flourishes again, his blade spinning in a blur. “I bet slitting my throat will put you in a better mood.”

“I’ll kill you for this,” Fenris hisses.

“Perfect!” Hawke says brightly. “There’s that good old fighting spirit!”

Fenris has heard enough. He charges.

The one advantage. He adjust his line slightly, heads to Hawke’s left. Bold, perhaps too much so, considering that’s Hawke’s dominant hand. But it’ll force him to pivot on the bad leg. Fenris watches as best he can while also keeping an eye out for the flash of steel.

The pivot is clumsy. Fenris dodges the incoming slash, dancing back, light on his feet. With room to move, he can stay out of Hawke’s range when he has to. Good.

Hawke nods. “Not bad. A tactical approach. That’ll get you further than pure force.”

“Glad you approve,” Fenris sneers. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have taught me quite so well.”

Hawke waves his dagger carelessly. “Please, Fenris, don’t be so naïve. I’ve got a thousand tricks you’ve never seen.”

Fenris launches himself forward again.

He starts a quick combination he knows from his unarmed forms, disregarding his blade. He’s flipped his grip, holding it reversed so he doesn’t accidentally cut himself. Anyway, the point isn’t to stab Hawke. It’s to force him to keep track of Fenris’s fists so he doesn’t see the snap kick aimed at his leg—

Which he swivels into, taking it in the meat at the back of his thigh rather than the sliced-up side.

Fenris curses in Tevinter and gets his feet back under him quickly. Hawke rolls his eyes. “You didn’t think I’d fall for that  _again,_  did you?”

Fenris swipes the dagger at his throat with a shout of rage. But he arches away, sliding back, toward the center of the space. More room to work with.

Silence in the tower, but for the distant trill of a songbird drifting through an open window. Fenris tries to figure out what to do next. Sit back and force Hawke to make the decisions. They know each other’s fighting styles, know the holes in every pattern. That would be a good start.

But Fenris is too angry to wait. So he runs forward.

Hawke slips and weaves, guiding Fenris’s hands away from him with quick and subtle applications of force, not an ounce of effort wasted. When he takes blows—decides to take blows—they glance, sliding off into uselessness. The edge of Fenris’s knuckles brushing Hawke’s skin, or the tip of the dagger just catching his armor. But Fenris presses, forcing him to move. Always circling back to the right. Fenris adjusts his kicks as well, lashing out at Hawke’s good side. When he swivels or blocks he must put weight on the bad leg, and, at last, he starts to wince.

It’s working.

The pivots slow. Fenris is tiring from the constant offense, but he just has to hold out until the leg gives. A strike to the shoulder, and Hawke grunts. A cut to the cheek, and he grits his teeth. The flinches of pain send Fenris into something approaching a frenzy. He wants nothing more than to see Hawke lain out and broken, blood soaking his clothes, begging for mercy Fenris has no intention of granting. He reverses his grip again, watches Hawke’s eyes flick to the blade—

Then he kicks, at the injured leg this time. Hawke’s dodge is too slow, and Fenris’s foot smacks into the patch of dried blood on his armor.

Hawke shouts in pain. Fenris steps forward, jams his shoulder into Hawke’s chest. His dagger-thrust is turned aside, slipping through thin air, but the motion sets Hawke to stumbling. Fenris bares his teeth, turns his body, and Hawke goes to one knee, his bad foot braced on the ground. Fenris raises the dagger, brings it down with all his might.

Hawke releases his weapon and blocks the stab just in time. The tip of the blade hovers just above his forehead, shivering.

Fenris leans forward, bringing to bear as much weight as he can muster. “It’s done, Hawke,” he snarls. Hawke’s injured leg is the one braced for recovery, and anything less than a sure effort will end in a knife-point through the eye.

“Have you forgotten already?” Hawke grins. “I’m an excellent liar.”

He rises like an uppercut.

Fenris is thrown bodily through the air. His back slams into the floor, arm jarred nerveless on the stone, hand springing open to relinquish his blade. Hawke’s coming for him, darting forward as if he’d never been injured in the first place. Fenris only manages to get one leg up between them, Hawke trapping the other between his thighs.

Then the elbows come raining down. Fenris tucks his head and tries to protect himself.

It’s a losing battle. The heavy strikes fall hard on his face, one after another, relentless. He feels the skin split over the bridge of his nose, thinks the bone may have broken. If only the damn lyrium would listen to him, he could roll out of this in half a second—but when he tries to invoke it, the power flickers and dies, as before. Why is this happening to him? Fine. Another method, then. He reaches down, knowing,  _knowing_  Hawke’s ribs are hurt—he  _felt_  the give—

But it’s a stupid mistake. Hawke’s a quick grappler and can take advantage of even the smallest opportunity, let alone the enormous one Fenris has just handed him. He wastes no time wrapping the exposed arm up against his own body.  Fenris knows this maneuver, watches Hawke’s bulk shift out to the side, legs scything up to come down across Fenris’s chest. He’s exquisitely aware that in half a second his arm will be overextended and his elbow destroyed.

So as the hold falls into place he’s already preparing to slip out of it, jamming his free palm against Hawke’s higher leg to shove it up, off his chest and over his head. Then he heaves his hips into the air, pushing himself up between Hawke’s legs, relieving the pressure on the locked-out elbow. Hawke tries to clamp him there, squeezing his thighs together. But Fenris is slim and wriggles, planting a knee on the ground— _finally_ —and, his core muscles straining, twists himself upright, Hawke’s legs locked around his waist.

Hawke’s still holding the trapped arm, struggling to find a firmer grip. Fenris lets him try, whips his free elbow up and smashes Hawke in the nose.

That one stuns him, and his grip falls open. Good. Fenris follows up. It’s his turn now to do damage. He’s breathing hard with the exertion of the fight, droplets of blood falling from his broken nose and split mouth with every harsh exhalation. But the rage carries him forward. He batters Hawke’s face, putting everything he has behind the strikes. Won’t let Hawke recover from this. Red paints Hawke’s teeth, runs into his beard. He defends weakly, still dazed.

Fenris finds it isn’t enough.

The revenge is good. The violence is a comfort. But it’s not enough. “You told me you loved me!” His elbow comes down, smearing the blood on Hawke’s face. “You told me you cared for me! Ten years!” Another elbow, smashing Hawke’s cheek open. “And I was a—a tool! An amusement! I didn’t deserve this, Hawke,  _how could you do this to me?!”_

Hawke folds himself in half, diving to Fenris’s side and levering an arm out behind his head.

Fenris finds himself bent forward against his will. Hawke swings around him with frightening agility for a man so large, flattens Fenris to the ground on his stomach and sits on his hips. Fenris plants his hands—and Hawke grabs a wrist, twisting it around behind his back.

The stone is cold against his cheek. His feet scrabble against the floor as he tries to gain purchase and finds none. Hawke is too heavy. So he falls still, gasping for breath, trying, one last futile time, to reach for the lyrium, beseeching it to aid him. Only a feeble wisp of power ghosts to the surface before it vanishes again.

“Damn it all.”

Something drips on his face. Warm. Hawke’s blood.

“I’m going to look awful for weeks.” A sigh, followed by a liquid cough.

“I hope it hurts,” Fenris says quietly.

“Oh, trust me, it does.  _Maker._  I think I’m missing a tooth.”

Then the sound of a knife being slipped from its sheath, the quiet ring of metal.

“I hope you are alone for the rest of your life.” Fenris feels the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “I hope you live alone and die alone.”

“That’s all you’ve got left? Reduced to whingeing at me?” Hawke jerks Fenris’s wrist up, and pain shoots sharp and hot through his strained shoulder. “Not even going to fight back before I cut your throat?”

Fenris plants his free hand on the stone once more. It’s true that he has nothing to lose.

But he flinches as a metal edge slides close against his neck like a soft caress. And then presses, breaking the skin—

The lyrium explodes to life.

As it did the last time, it moves him of its own will, he the helpless passenger. He pushes hard off the floor, away from the knife. Hawke’s still got a tight hold on his wrist, and as he rolls his shoulder pops from its socket. Fenris yells in pain, but he’s on his back now, and he folds upward, slamming the crown of his head into Hawke’s face.

Hawke goes limp for a half-second, enough for Fenris to scramble to his feet, his dislocated shoulder in agony, the arm bent to his body. Hawke doesn’t even rise from his knees, his eyes going wide.

Fenris manages to look down at himself. He glows with an intense lavender-white radiance. He’s expecting it to move him forward, to puppet him into taking Hawke apart—

—but instead the light blazes stronger suddenly, and his skin burns worse than it ever has, not since the day he received the markings. He lets out a hoarse scream, collapsing, curling up as best he can on the cool stone floor. What’s happening? Why is it—why is this hurting him too?

The burning doesn’t abate. It might worsen. Fenris isn’t sure. At this level of agony, the exact degree matters little. He thinks he’s sobbing, or perhaps that’s just the blood trickling down his face. He half-expects it to steam away, with the awful heat scorching his skin.

Through the intense white-purple glow he sees a shape crawling toward him. “Fenris?” it says. “Fenris, I’m so sorry. Please be all right.“ The voice is familiar, he thinks. But he doesn’t have the presence of mind to figure out where he’s heard it before.

“Stand back!”

That voice is not familiar. Then there’s another shape blocking his vision. The first voice calls out again, an urgent “What are you doing?!”

Something clamps around his wrist. He hears a stifled cry.

The burn ascends. Fenris can’t coexist with pain like this. He shuts his eyes, slides away into the deep black where he doesn’t have to coexist with it, doesn’t have to exist at all.


	5. Chapter 5

Fenris stares at the wall for a long time, through eyes swollen half-shut.

It’s stacked with broken crates. He suspects his accommodations are less true accommodations and more a place to stash him away in case he goes screaming mad again. Sometimes the crates are occluded by a man in fancy dress, pacing. The occlusions are frequent. The room is likely very small. There is one bar-crossed window, through which the orange light of dusk illuminates the dust hanging thick in the air.

Eventually he speaks up. “I have a question.”

“ _Fasta_  vass—“ The man jumps hard, then settles, clutching his chest. “Ah. So you’re awake, I see.”

Tevinter. Fenris pauses, then goes on. “Were you there?”

“During your fantastically bloody altercation with your friend? Yes, I hid myself away on the second-tier balcony. Until the end, that is.”

“Did he really say those things? Or was I imagining them?”

“You mean all those lines about ‘an animal that can’t be broken,’ et cetera? No, that was all real. Said he needed to be sure you’d believe he would kill you—something about pulling punches the last time? Anyway, I agree, it was really  _rather_  cold—“

“Good. I had hoped that was true.” Fenris is finding that the act of speech hurts. His lips are still cut, his jaw throbbing with pain.

“Er…perhaps I misheard, I thought you just said it was  _good_ —“

“Yes. Hawke does that. I know he does. It’s much better to know the words were his, rather than a product of my own mind.”

“Ah.” The man pauses, unsure. “I see.”

Fenris pulls the thick blanket up to his chin, the fabric soft on his bare skin. His bed, like the crates, is broken—he can feel the collapsed slats under his hip. But it’s a bed, not the ground, and thus the most comfortable thing he’s slept on in weeks.

“My name is Dorian, by the way.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t bother introducing himself. Hawke will have done that already. “What happened?”

Dorian heaves a sigh. “What do you remember?”

“I was in the highlands and tried to kill Hawke. I failed.” He recalls the uncontrolled red blur of anger, the roiling hatred. “Then I woke up on a table and kicked Hawke in the mouth. Only managed to do it once, sadly. After that I woke up in a tower and tried to kill Hawke again. But I failed once more, and he was about to kill me, but the damned lyrium came to my aid at last.” The lyrium, which is now missing from his awareness in an odd way—no, it’s there, just dormant. Deeply dormant. “And then I felt as if I had been set on fire. Then someone grabbed my wrist. And now I am here.”

“All right. Let me fill in the gaps.” Dorian drags over a chair missing half its back and sits down.

“Hawke brought you here for a cure,” he begins. “Rode all night, I’m told, and arrived early this morning. We figured if we could reach the lyrium the same way you did in Larannis, it might cure you all by itself. The plan worked as it was supposed to—at the moment of the deathblow, it took you out of harm’s way. But after that it just…kept glowing. I thought perhaps it might need a little help. So I dropped down and started pouring as much healing magic into you as I could gather.”

“Really? You might have been poisoned yourself,” Fenris remarks. “Or any number of things. These markings…”

“Yes, I know. I’m the one who examined you.”

Oh. “Hm.” Fenris curls up slightly, a reflex of protection. He’s never let any mage examine him closely—even when he received healing from the apostate in Kirkwall, he stayed only as long as he had to and not a second more. The lyrium is dangerous, he knows that. And he doesn’t want anyone to figure out how to take advantage of it.

“I—“ The Tevinter must sense something is wrong, because abashment blooms on his face. “I had to. It was the only way.”

“Yes, I know.”  _That doesn’t mean I have to like it._  Fenris keeps that last part to himself. He still needs more information.

“I…anyway,” the man continues. “One way or another, it worked. The infection was gone.  _Amazing_ , really, it’s simply—well, never mind. So after that, you both needed healing, considering you’d just beaten the absolute stuffing out of each other in the most barbaric way possible—do you do that  _often?_  With the elbows, and the faces—sorry. Well, Leliana wouldn’t let anyone else touch you, just in case I was wrong and you started trying to murder people again in a fit of unhinged pique. And Hawke didn’t want anyone else to know he’s here. Which left me and the half-ounce of magic I had left in my body to deal with both of you.” A tragic sigh. Fenris tries not to roll his eyes.

“Hawke, of course, insisted I fix you first. I tried to argue—he looked awful when I met him, and ten times worse after you got your hands on him—but he wasn’t having it. So I put your shoulder back the old-fashioned way, you know, a good nudge and a wiggle or two and it popped right back into the socket. And I set your nose straight again. Fear not, your profile should be just as stunning as ever.”

This time Fenris glares. Dorian raises his hands. “I was just trying to make a little light of things! The entire situation was  _ghastly_ , let me assure you. A mercy you weren’t conscious for it. Well, after I did that I tried to help Hawke and he admonished me for not finishing up with you first, and I explained to him that he needed the help  _far_  more, and then he started shouting at me—don’t worry, I didn’t take it personally, it was obvious he cares a great deal about you—so I reminded him I could simply whap him upside the head with my staff and heal him while he was happily snoozing away. At that point he muttered some quaint Fereldan idiom about what exactly I could do with my staff, but he did let me begin working on him.”

Fenris props himself up on one elbow. “Is he—all right?”

Dorian hesitates. “I…was nearly drained. He will be fine eventually but at the moment remains…rather fragile.”

“Where is he now?”

“Er—Varric’s quarters, I believe.”

“Hm.” That’s good, at least. Varric is a loyal friend, and probably just what Hawke needs after what Fenris has put him through. “Where are my clothes?”

“Well, your old ones were covered in a truly upsetting amount of blood, so I dug up some new ones.” He gestures. “There.”

Right beside the bed. Fenris is about to ask the Tevinter to turn around but discovers he already has.

The clothes are made for someone of elven proportions, narrow in the shoulder and waist. After having spent so long outfitting himself in stolen human garb, it’s oddly comforting. He stands with caution but discovers he is largely without pain, with the exception of the sore shoulder and how most of his face feels as if it’s made of half-dried plaster. Very tender half-dried plaster. “Take me to him.”

Dorian eyes him with mild trepidation. “I do hope we won’t cause a stir.”

Fenris discovers he was right about being stashed away in some far corner of the keep—the hallways here are in disrepair, and deserted, with the exception of regularly posted soldiers. Just in case he smashed down the door blazing red and looking for something to kill, no doubt. As Dorian leads him on the surroundings grow less shabby. At one point they pass a tarnished mirror hung on the wall, and Fenris sees exactly what kind of condition his face is in. The sight provokes a half-smile— _painful_ —and Dorian raises an eyebrow. “What are you smiling about?”

Fenris shrugs with his good shoulder. “I look awful.”

“Ah. And that’s…funny, is it?”

“I suppose it’s a relief to know that a broken face is the worst thing wrong with me right now.”

“I…see,” Dorian says, in a tone that makes it clear he doesn’t.

More people appear in the halls. He draws stares, but not many. Injuries are likely not an uncommon sight here. He suspects they’re drawing close to their destination. “Dorian. You are a mage of Tevinter, correct?”

“Yes, I am.”

Fenris nods. “I recognize what you did for me today. You put yourself in unknown danger, with no expected reward except for my own well-being. These acts took bravery and selflessness.”

“Ah.” Dorian puts on a self-satisfied smile. “Well, there’s no need to—“

“Did Hawke tell you how I received these markings?”

“Er—“ The smile folds into a confused frown. “No, actually. Only that the origin and details of the process were lost.”

Good. Hawke, as always, proving he is worthy of trust. “I was once a slave to a magister. My master inscribed these markings into me. The ritual inflicted on me unbearable agony and stole away all of my memories before that day. From that point I spent more time by my master’s side than the rest of his slaves combined. I was…well-used. I served him for twelve years before I managed to escape.”

No reply. Dorian’s face has gone blank, though Fenris notices he is not as skilled as Hawke at hiding what he feels. Fenris continues on. “As I said, I recognize what you did today. But do not expect any gratitude from me.”

A moment of silence, but for the murmur of distant conversation, the scrape of their footsteps on the stone. “I…understand.”

Good enough.

“Here we are.” Dorian stops.

A ragged scrap of a banner bearing the crest of the Free Marches is pinned to the door. A stain near the edge looks familiar…Fenris squints. Did Varric bring this all the way from the Hanged Man?

“I’ll leave you to it.” Dorian hesitates. “I’m…glad you’re all right.”

Then he turns and heads down the hall.

Fenris knocks softly. A familiar voice calls, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Varric.”

“Fenris!” A lock clicks, and Varric appears in the doorway. “Well, you’re looking a whole lot better than the last time I saw you. Minus, you know…” He gestures at his face.

Fenris grins and winces. His mouth really does hurt. “A small price to pay.” He looks past Varric into the room. “On my end, anyway.”

Hawke, as expected, looks awful. He’s pale, his face a mess. The sheets are drawn over his body but under them Fenris is sure he’s sporting swathes of bandages.

“Go ahead and wake him up. I’m sure he’d want you to.” Varric slips smoothly into the corridor, ushering Fenris inside the room, and shuts the door behind him.

Fenris pulls up a plush velvet footrest and sits beside the bed. He wants to kiss Hawke but can’t imagine that won’t be painful for both of them. So instead Fenris just takes his hand.

Hawke rouses slowly, mumbling something, blinking in the waning light. Both his eyes are blackened, the red and purple running into the bruises that darken the rest of his face. “F—Fenris!”

“Yes.” Fenris lifts Hawke’s hand and kisses it. Much easier than trying to navigate their smashed lips together. “The Tevinter said I’m completely cured.”

Hawke just watches him for a moment. “That’s—very good to hear.”

Fenris finds himself wishing Hawke would make a joke, divert attention away from all the horrible things that have just transpired between them. But he decides it’s not necessary. They’ve handled horrible things in the past. This is just one more, and the worst part is behind them already. “I’m sorry.”

Hawke smiles, cracking open a dried cut on his lip, a tiny globule of bright-red blood swelling there. “If I told you you didn’t do anything wrong, would it stop you from apologizing?”

Fenris snorts. “I doubt it.”

“Then I’ll just make my own apologies.” Hawke squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry for doing that to your face. And—for saying all those awful things. I had to be sure—”

“The Tevinter told me about it. Your plan worked.”

Hawke raises a finger. “There’s one for the tally.”

“Yes, right beside our glorious charge into the red lyrium mine. So far you’re at fifty percent.” Fenris lifts his eyebrow. “Which, if I’m not mistaken, is well below your last estimate.”

Hawke gazes at him plaintively. “I’ve just had the living daylights beaten out of me and you’re  _still_  mocking me? Truly, your cruelty knows no bounds.”

Fenris heaves an airy sigh. “Despite a period of uncertainty, I’m afraid it appears that you will indeed be forced to endure me for some time yet. So I suggest you make yourself used to it.”

Hawke’s smile falters a little, an intensity welling there as his blackened eyes slip down to stare at their joined hands. “Fenris, I have cherished every moment I’ve ever spent with you.”

Fenris feels he’s supposed to say something equally meaningful but the first thing that comes out of his mouth is hardly that. “Even the time Isabela challenged me to a drinking game, which I foolishly agreed to, and later that evening spent a solid ten minutes vomiting miserably in the alley behind the Hanged Man while you rubbed my back and tried to console me?”

Hawke bursts out laughing, his face contorting with pain a moment later as he clutches his ribs. Yet the laughter still rises out of him. “I will admit that some moments I cherished more than others.”

Fenris’s toes curl into the carpet. “Hawke, I’m sorry.”

For a moment Hawke doesn’t reply. Then he sits up, with effort, pushes the covers aside. “Come here.”

Fenris sits beside him. He was right about the bandages—they’re all Hawke’s wearing, but he’s wearing plenty. Then he notices—“That’s how you did it!”

“Hm? Did what?”

“Your injured leg.” Fenris taps the bandage, wrapped high on Hawke’s thigh. “I thought the wound was much lower, I was aiming for the spot on your armor where the dried blood was still—but you’d turned the thigh plate upside down.”

Hawke grins. “I was barely awake, let alone in any condition to fight you. I needed any advantage I could get. And thank the Maker I did it, because that kick of yours came out of nowhere.”

Fenris kisses his shoulder. “You’ve taught me well.”

For a moment they sit there, fingers intertwined. Then Hawke lets out a tight sigh. “I still feel awful about having said those things to you.”

“Hawke—I  _know_  you didn’t mean a word of it. I’ve seen how easily you can separate yourself from the task at hand.”

“Yes, but it’s just—you didn’t deserve to hear that.”

“I didn’t deserve to walk through a vein of red lyrium either,” he remarks drily. “The world’s falling apart, in case you hadn’t noticed. We take what we can get.”

“Well, I’ve got you, and I’d call that pretty lucky.” Hawke puts together a grin.

 _And you won’t lose me._  Fenris wants to say it but knows he can’t. Not after a close call like this.

Later, as Hawke once more lies sleeping, Fenris stands by the window, rotating his arms in the last glow of twilight. His markings haven’t a spark of power in them right now, although he can feel it trickling back, slowly, very slowly. Mainly what he’s focused on right now is the color. Are they blushing lilac again? Is his paranoia about the possibility a symptom itself?

But no. Dorian said he was clean, and he trusts the Tevinter at least that far, if no further.

He watches Hawke for a moment, lingering on the swollen lips, the crusted scabs that cross his cheeks. This can’t happen again. If Fenris were driven mad, unsalvageable, and Hawke were alone with the choice—

He thinks of Hawke in the tower, staring him down, face still unmarred. How he was absolutely sure in that moment, even outside the red lyrium rage, that he was going to die there.

Yes, Fenris thinks, as he sits again next to the bed. He trusts Hawke to make the right decision.


End file.
